


Life's a long headache in a noisy street

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caretaking, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock holding his head in his hands as if it was something fragile and important seemed to remove John a little from the rest of the pain. As if, he thought exhaustedly, Sherlock was able to hold his pain as well as his head, so that John didn't have to carry it alone.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's a long headache in a noisy street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mandatorily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandatorily/gifts).



> A "get better"-fic for Mandy.
> 
> Regrettably unbeta-ed.

It had started some time in the afternoon, an unpleasant tightness at the back of his skull, that seemed to radiate farther with every passing minute. At first John had tried to ignore it, telling himself that it was simply stress: The surgery was rather understaffed at the moment and his schedule the last few days had included a lot of running from one patient to the next, as well as a truly terrifying amount of paperwork. It was no wonder his neck was tense as hell.

 

By the time he finished his shift, the pain had become a pulsating, insistent presence behind both his eye-balls. It throbbed in his temples whenever he moved and lay like an iron ring of pressure around his head. The aspirin he had taken earlier seemed not to have made so much as a dent and the tube ride home was a nightmare: If the weather outside was stiflingly hot and humid, the air full of exhaust and the smell of garbage, the atmosphere seemed to get more unbearable with every step he took into the subterranean world of the tube. The train was worst of all. Stale air, the odour of a million perfumes and colognes mixing with sweat and a faint trace of sick. John could feel his own stomach roil in time with the expanding and contracting waves of pain that ebbed and flowed in his forehead. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to think of the peace and quiet that would wait for him at home.

 

The walk from the station seemed unaccountably long and by the time he had dragged himself up the stairs to his room, he was covered in a cold sweat and biting his lip so he wouldn't moan with agony at every step he took. Making noise, he felt, would be his undoing.

 

He quickly stripped of his sweat-soaked shirt and then carefully lay down on his bed, curling away from the brightness and noise that were coming in through the open window. He thought about closing the window and getting himself some water but the idea of having to move again made the pain stab through both his eye-balls in warning, so he staid put.

 

For a while he simply drifted there, half-awake, in a sea of pain and nausea, trying not to throw up. He really didn't want to find out what being sick would do to his head.

 

Then, he heard the front door open and shut and a moment later the distinctive sound of Sherlock coming up the stairs. Oh God, he thought, please, please don't let him play the violin. Even the idea of having to listen to the high pitched sounds was excruciating at the moment.

 

But Sherlock's steps continued up to John's own level of the flat and moments later his bedroom door creaked open.

 

“John?” Sherlock asked, his deep voice vibrating uncomfortably in John's eardrums.

 

In answer, John curled up a little tighter and hoped that Sherlock would get the message. Instead of moving away, however, he stepped a closer and then said very quietly: “Oh, I see.”

 

Without uttering another word, he walked over to the window and closed it, drawing the curtains shut as well. His movements were strangely soft and almost soundless.

 

When he left, John breathed out a sigh of relief. The darkness and quiet were helping a little and he was grateful Sherlock hadn't required him to talk.

 

A little later however, he tensed involuntarily as he heard Sherlock come back. _Oh God, what if he does want to talk?_ John thought with muzzy despair, _my head might actually explode_.

 

Sherlock, however, stepped over to John's bed without a word and set something down on his nighttable with a _clonk_. When John opened his eyes very carefully and just a little, he could make out a glass of ginger ale which was still fizzing slightly. The sound was uncomfortable but the thought of the cool, slightly sour taste was already settling his stomach.

 

There was some rustling and then Sherlock stepped back into view, carefully putting a bin down next to John's bed. Thank Christ, at least he'd not have to stumble all the way down-stairs if he actually should be sick.

 

He opened his mouth to thank Sherlock, but Sherlock just put a long, cool finger on his lips and shook his head.

 

“Don't talk,” he whispered, “it will only make it worse.” Then he left again.

 

John carefully reached over and drank some of the ginger ale, pressing the cold glass against his forehead between sips. He sighed with relief as he could feel the nausea recede a little.

 

When Sherlock came back this time, still apparently walking on tip-toes, John opened his eyes just a slit and saw that he was carrying a bowl and a washcloth. He rounded John's bed so that he was out of sight for a moment and then the mattress dipped as Sherlock settled himself behind John. There were the sounds of somebody wetting and wringing out a washcloth while trying to be very, very quiet and then a blessed coolness on John's forehead. The relief was so great he could have cried.

 

They stayed like this for what seemed like hours, Sherlock renewing the cold washcloth on his face occasionally, while John concentrated on the feeling of diminishing pain until it was nothing more than a tense ache all across his neck and scalp. It didn't feel pleasant but it was a far cry from the agony he had been in before.

 

Finally, he heard Sherlock set down the bowl and then his cool, smooth fingers began to gently explore John's scalp. When John hissed at the discomfort of feeling pressure where muscles were already uncomfortably tense, Sherlock gentled his touch even more and started to move his fingertips across John's skull in gentle circles. It felt wonderfully soothing, the pain lessening even more wherever his fingers came into contact with John's skin. Slowly, Sherlock moved on to his face, stroking tension out of John's jaw muscles, an almost featherlight pressure exploring the bones of his face.

 

John was feeling drowsy and content by now, a little high on the relief from the pain and the unexpected gentleness of Sherlock's touch. Sherlock, he noticed, had still not said a word, but now he was tugging gently at John's shoulder.

 

It took John a moment to get it but then he obediently rolled over onto his back, which hurt less than he had expected it to. Sherlock shifted around a little next to him and then moved to cradle the back of John's head in his hands, his fingertips resting against the point were muscles met skull, exerting a gentle but persistent pressure.

 

It felt so good, John sighed. It wasn't just the pressure, he realised, though that was nice. Neither was it the fact that Sherlock's hands were blessedly cool against the skin of his neck even though that helped, too. No, lying on his back like this, with Sherlock holding his head in his hands as if it was something fragile and important seemed to remove John a little from the rest of the pain. As if, he thought exhaustedly, Sherlock was able to hold his pain as well as his head, so that John didn't have to carry it alone. The thought made him smile just a little.

 

In the end, he fell asleep like this, feeling unaccountably safe and held, Sherlock's hands protecting him even from his own nerve-endings.

 

 

 

When he wakes in the morning, one of Sherlock's hands is still cradling the back of John's head, the other resting on his stomach. Sherlock himself is snoring quietly next to him, long limbs bent around John at awkward angles.

 

John simply lies there and looks, a strange tenderness blooming in his chest. His headache has disappeared entirely and he can't help but feel that it is because Sherlock has somehow managed to pull the pain out of John's body through the sheer magic of his touch.

 

He turns on his side carefully, freeing Sherlock's hand from behind his head, and traces a finger along the delicate line of Sherlock's jaw, finally cupping his cheek in the palm of his left hand.

 

At that, Sherlock's eyes fly open and he stares at John for a moment, unfocused and confused. Then his grey eyes become alert and a little darker, shading almost into blue as he smiles at John.

 

“Feeling better?” he asks.

 

John nods, unable to take his eyes off of Sherlock's mouth. How has he never noticed before just how perfectly drawn the two little curves of his upper lip are? Before he can stop himself, he puts his finger right onto the little dip where they meet.

 

When he looks up again, Sherlock is regarding him intently, his eyes even darker than before.

 

John licks his own lips nervously, suddenly not at all sure what he is doing here, but then Sherlock leans forward and presses their mouths together. It is butterfly-soft, just a gentle press of lips on lips, first on the one, then on the other side of John's mouth and for a moment John holds perfectly still, afraid to break the spell.

 

Then the reality of the situation comes back to him, the fact that he is lying on his bed and that he is kissing Sherlock, that Sherlock is kissing him, and he sighs a little and opens his lips just a fraction. Immediately, Sherlock's tongue is there, explorative and slow and then Sherlock, too, opens his mouth a little more, granting John access.

 

They end up making out for long minutes, losing themselves in each other's texture and taste, tongues mapping mouths, teeth pulling gently at lips. John feels a little drunk on the intimacy of it all, on the smooth glide of Sherlock's tongue against his, on the little appreciative sounds Sherlock makes when John digs his teeth into Sherlock's lower lip.

 

Finally, Sherlock pulls back a little and rests his forehead against John's, his breath tickling the tip of John's nose.

 

“I think,” Sherlock murmurs, “we should take a shower.”

 

“Yeah,” John asks, a little breathless and dazed, “you think?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and pulls back a little more to smile at John, brightly and openly, “I really want to see you naked.”

 

“Oh,” John says, feeling a blush spread down his neck at the gentle amusement he sees in Sherlock's face, while the rest of him is still busy trying to process the idea that Sherlock apparently _wants_ him. “Yes,” he says when he realises that Sherlock is still waiting for an answer, “that sounds like a really, really good idea.” Because, God, how often has he thought about this? About stripping Sherlock out of his stupidly tight shirts and trousers, of running his hand over every muscular curve of his torso?

 

In the end, they end up fucking each other thoroughly and slowly, the lukewarm water of the shower creating a barrier between them and the world, making the meeting of their bodies almost unbearably private. This, John thinks later, as they are lying on Sherlock's bed together, letting the morning air dry their bodies which are still glowing with pleasure, is worth any headache the world is prepared to throw at him.

**Author's Note:**

> There is now fanart based on this story, commissioned by Trebletea. You can find it [here](http://lascocks.tumblr.com/post/28162428373/commission-for-trebletea-poor-booboo-got-a).


End file.
